


Paper Crowns

by Rollthedice



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollthedice/pseuds/Rollthedice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Hat Films Royalty AU!</p><p> </p><p>  <em>“If I die…” His father continued, pausing only to cough up blood into a handkerchief. “You must be here to take my place. I cannot afford to lose you now. You are the only heir.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be multi chaptered so I'll post Smith's bit next, then Trott's and link the together and the real fun can begin!!

The old castle walls were thick with moss and stained from prolonged exposure to the heavy rain that often fell upon the kingdom. Though safely covered from the elements Ross could still hear the pellets of rain bounce off the cocoon of stone that surrounded him and he shivered, pulling his cloak further across his shoulders as he took a left into the newer parts of the castle where the floors gleamed and the ceiling was held up by ornate marble pillars. Sunlight, although not much of it, beamed in through the large windows and cast shadows on the armour stands which stood proudly at the far side of the room. In the middle of the room rested a large table of dark oak, a map pinned to its surface showed brightly coloured figurines advancing towards the coast line. Ross grimaced, he really didn’t want to think about that right now.

 

With a sigh he travelled slowly down the staircase into the main hall where construction had finally finished and he halted at the bottom of the staircase, taking in the smell of sawdust and woodchips, the gleaming marble throne that faced towards the large doorway and the chandelier that swayed gently, it’s crystals reflecting the sunlight and scattering it like stardust across the room. This was his home.

 

Under the stern gaze of one of the guards Ross moved towards the doors and motioned for them to be opened. When nothing happened he turned to face the guard with a frown and asked as politely as he could muster, though poison nestled in his tone. “Open the doors please.”

 

“No can do your highness.” The guard said, although he was a great many years older than Ross they were both around the same height. “Kings Orders.”

 

Ross continued to glare at the man for a full minute hoping that somehow he might just change his mind about the whole ‘kings orders’ business and let him out. He hadn’t felt the cool embrace of grass beneath his feet for at least a month now. When his glaring seemed to do little but cause the guard to stare back Ross slumped his shoulders, defeated, and shuffled back into the main room in search of his father. As he wandered he recalled a conversation he had had with his father when the infection had only just begun to take over his body.

 

 _“You must stay here.”_ His father coughed, clutching Ross’ tunic desperately. _“There must always be a Hornby at Winterfell”_

_“We’re not at Winterfell father.” Ross said, perplexed. “Where even is Winterfell?”_

_“If I die…”_ His father continued, pausing only to cough up blood into a handkerchief. _“You must be here to take my place. I cannot afford to lose you now. You are the only heir.”_

 

Ross didn’t want to be king in the slightest. He would rather live with the sewer rats than rule over a kingdom that has more issues than the local drunk has liver failures. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate his extreme luck in being born into royalty, but he was really the last man for the job. The thought of dictating people’s lives caused bile to rise in his throat, he wasn’t a leader. He couldn’t govern courts or practice diplomacy. He couldn’t rally armies and protect his people, there was no way. He couldn’t even lift a spoon without hurting himself in some odd fashion.

 

‘The young wolf’ they called him, not that it made any sense because twenty isn’t that young and he isn’t a wolf and bears no resemblance to one, though the insignia on his family crest says otherwise. As for his popularity in the kingdom, he never really did much to make people hate him. He never really did much at all. Sure people disliked him, they were bound to. But people also sang his praises and governed themselves with falsified stories of his bravery. The most prominent being that time he battled a dragon with only his fists. Ross had never even seen a dragon, let alone defeated one. He didn’t even really believe that they existed and yet he was rumoured to have killed at least seven before he was old enough to walk.

 

The castle, just like every other day, was devoid of visitors. Guards patrolled the hallways, clinking and clattering in chainmail. Some stood stoically next to doorways and arches, polished swords sheathed, eyes staring straight ahead like statues. Ross didn’t particularly mind them, they were the closest things he ever had to friends. Granted they usually only yielded one sided conversations of Ross asking them how their day was going and them nodding like puppets, only a handful ever gave him a properly worded response, and even then they were terse and short.

 

It’s not that Ross hasn’t _tried_ to make friends, it’s just that’s an extremely hard feat when you’re the future ruler of an entire kingdom. People would pretend to like him for his power and wealth, they would shower him in compliments and gifts, invite him to lavish celebrations and wax poetry in his honour. But as time drew on he weeded out his fake friends until there was no one left and he was stuck walking through the hallways alone. The king’s right hand, Mark Turpin, was a talkative man but was rarely in the castle. Ross found himself yearning for the times when he would visit just so he might be able to engage in an actual conversation for once instead of talking to the paintings on the wall. Not that the painting of his late mother wasn’t fascinating to look at, it’s just paintings generally tend to not offer great conversation.

  
His footsteps took him along the same route he walked every day and he came to a halt in front the bolted double doors that lead to the Ball Room. Hesitantly he pressed his palm against the door and pushed, but the locked door did not budge. The ghost of music drifted through the keyhole as Ross let a deep sigh ripple through his throat. It had been years since they last used the ball room, he could still remember the way the music filled the room and how the gloved hand of one of his suitors he didn’t really care for fitted in his own palm as they danced. He didn’t enjoy the experience of dancing with someone he had no interest in, but it was always fun to watch others dance and the rhythmical music had a funny way of lifting his spirits whenever he felt sour. But ever since the unfortunate and untimely death of his mother seven years ago, the room had been closed off and the music stopped. Perhaps the thing he missed the most about her was the way she danced, holding herself with dignity and respect as she moved graciously across the floor. She was the one who taught Ross humility and grace. His father loaded him with weapons and she filled him with words. When his father taught him how to fight, she taught him how to love. When his father gifted him his first sword, his mother bestowed upon him a fine writing quill. Beneath her painting rests a single candle that is often replaced to commemorate the circumstances of her death and to pay respect to the life that died with her. Ross’ little brother died of premature birth, his mother passed away before even knowing the fate of the small child she was so prepared to love.

Through the large windows Ross could just about make out the people from the town below carrying on their daily lives. Ross wondered if they were happy. Wondered what made them smile. What made them laugh, made them cry. All his life he was taught how he was different. Had been taught how to _be_ different, how he was somehow special. How he deserved to be treated with respect simply just because of his last name. He wondered if that was true.

Something about it didn’t sit quite right with him. It niggled at the back of his subconscious and urged him to move away from the window lest the feeling of guilt he was so familiar with came back and settled into his heart as if it belonged there. It was beyond him why his last name was of some great importance, Perhaps he was different, just not in the way that was expected of him.

His father’s door appeared around the corner of the hallway he was travelling down and he paused, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest and his palm wrapped around the familiar door handle. He halted for a moment. Ross pressed against the door, close enough to hear his father’s stilted speech. Muttered words to the hand maiden that no doubt stood nearby. Something deep within himself told him to turn away, told him that it would be easier if he distanced himself from his father. So that when the time comes. If the time comes. It would not strike a dagger through his heart and wrench out the very thing that made him whole. Made him human.

He must have made some kind of noise because a moment later he heard his name called by a cracked and fragile voice and he sighed, pressing once more against the door and slipping inside. He stood at the foot of the bed feeling altogether out of place as his nervous fingers traced galaxies on his father’s bed post.

His father, once a strong and able man with a voice like thunder and a walk like storm was broken, beaten down by an illness that plagued the insides of his body in ways that Ross could not see. He imagined he wouldn’t want to see anyway. His father smiled at him as if he were some apparition of great hope and joy. As if the very notion of seeing your own flesh and blood standing before you could cure all ills and heal all wounds. Ross wished it could.

As it stands however there is no hope of his father being cured by the flash of a smile or the twinkle in one’s eye. Such magic does not exist and in a land plagued by sorcery it is hard to imagine a type of magic that is simply impossible. Even Ross for all his innocence and naivety in youth knew that the act of wishing was fruitless. All the same in times of solitude when he was left to his own devices (A rare occurrence these days) he liked to imagine a world where wishes do come true. He thinks perhaps he would have wished for his mother back, or maybe even just a friend to help dull the pain and the dreary hours pass by.

“Ross.” His father said again as if Ross hadn’t been listening. Ross looked up then to meet his father’s gaze which (although weak) still commanded such strength that it might have stirred a revolution in his heart. If only his heart were not so worn from the aches so common with loss and that feeling of unimaginable loneliness that has woven into the very being of who he is.

“Yes?” He asked, moving his hands from the bedpost to hold them behind his back. He wasn’t really sure why, but he had seem other men regarding his father in this position before.

“Are you well?” His father then asked and cracked a smile as if he understood something Ross had only just begun to know. “You look pale.”

For as long as Ross could remember he had always been pale so this revelation was hardly new to him. He smiled anyway. Perhaps to humour his father. Perhaps to humour himself.

“I am fine.” He said, ghosting his bottom lip with his teeth. “But how are you?”

His father only nodded in response, motioning for the hand maiden to leave the room. Silently she collected her belongings and left, offering Ross a sympathetic smile as she passed him on her way to the door.

Once the door closed behind her his father locked eyes with him again and by the way his mouth formed a stern straight line Ross could tell exactly what was coming.

“I have made the final preparations with Turpin.” His father said, shifting ever so slightly in his bed so that he was sitting up. “He will be with you throughout your reign as king, if you allow it.”

Ross was silent and so his father continued.

“He does speak fondly of you often. He believes in you almost as much as I do.” He paused then to smile, drinking in the sight of his only son with something akin to pride in his eyes. “If you have any questions, you can direct them to him.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Ross said, his voice quiet but strong and surprising even himself. In was uncommon for anyone to talk back to the king, even if it were the heir to the throne talking. It’s not as if he could have helped it however and his father didn’t even batter an eyelid, only inclined his head curiously to prompt Ross to continue. “Don’t talk as if you’re already gone.” He finished. It sounded pathetic, he was aware of that. But for his father to make these plans. To speak as if he had already passed away… madness. Ross still clung to the belief that he could save him, or if he couldn’t then something else would.

His father regarded him with a knowing look but instead of responding to his sons gritted words he said “You remind me of your mother.”

Ross’ retort died on his lips leaving a bitter taste he had no choice but to swallow. It seemed oddly fitting that the first time his father had spoken of his mother ever since her death was when his father himself was about to join her forever more.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve raised you to be a king at all. No matter how many times I taught you how to fight, to be stern and vigilant, you, just like your mother always seemed more interested in watching the world go by.”

Ross didn’t quite know how to respond to that and so for the second time, fell silent.

“Nevertheless.” His father continued. “You have that fire in your gut, I know it. You have royal blood. You will be king.”

Ross could only nod in response. The words “I will.” Formed on this lips but he couldn’t utter them, the words seemed out of place and wrong. As if someone had jumbled them and scrambled them past recognition.

His father started coughing violently then, his lungs filled with blood as he spluttered and shook. Before Ross could think to move and help the door behind him opened and the hand maiden returned to the Kings aid. Something about seeing his stoic father doubled over weak and in pain felt wrong to him and he took his leave, closing the door behind him and resting his back against the heavy wood. With his head buried in his palms he listened to his father’s pain through the other side of the door.

People used to say he was lucky to be born into royalty. Now he wasn’t so sure.

 


	2. The Outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Besides, after so many years of living the criminal lifestyle he grew to be grateful for the little things, still being alive for example. He was grateful for that. Too many times he had seen a public execution and found his hand grasping his own neck in fear. He felt their pain, but he wouldn’t join them._

Smith ran through the labyrinth of bustling streets as if hell itself was on his heels, snapping and biting at his ankles. He had to fight himself not to turn around as he ran. As tempting as it was to taunt his pursuers he knew he stood little chance of managing to run backwards at a fast enough pace that would ensure his escape.

It’s not as if he had committed a heinous crime, only ‘borrowed’ an apple or two from a stall. Well, he didn’t really intend to give them back, but it’s the thought that counts.  He barrelled out into the woods that surrounded the town, twisting and weaving between trees as if he were following some age worn route he had been running since he was young, perhaps he was. Stray branches snagged and clawed at his clothes as he ran past, covering him in streaks of mud that marked him like blood, like scars that would never heal. It branded him as what he was, as what he would always be. Filth.

He couldn’t hear them anymore, their yells of protest dwindling to nothing more than the solitary cry of a bird flying overhead the canopy of trees. A few more steps to the right and he would be in the Kings woods. Alex paused for a moment as he panted, looking out at the woods that stretched before him like a sea he was itching to swim in. Golden leaves caressed the branches of tall red trees. Sunlight flittered like song birds through the canopy and the grass was lush and thick, a beautiful shade of green that Alex see’s so rarely these days amongst the dark browns and dirty yellows that fill up the forest that he calls home.

With a scowl he turned away from the Kings wood and set off down a rocky path, ducking underneath branches that stuck out like knifes and crunching fallen leaves under his feet. The walk back ‘home’ was long, the forest darkened around him though the sun shone on brightly overhead. The tree’s provided a thick canopy which the sun itself could not cut through, Alex used to think it provided great cover from the rain and the from the prying eyes that plagued him in his shivering nights. Now he just missed the way the suns rays would dance across his skin as if he were worthy of being warm, of being safe.

He would dwell on his life, would blame his circumstances on the heavens, would throw his fist in the sky and shake it with the anger that coursed through his blood but he didn’t. There would be not point. It would change nothing. He would yell and scream and grasp at his hair but the next moment his life would continue as normal. Besides, after so many years of living the criminal lifestyle he grew to be grateful for the little things, still being alive for example. He was grateful for that. Too many times he had seen a public execution and found his hand grasping his own neck in fear. He felt their pain, but he wouldn’t join them. He was clever, agile, and strong. He had to be. After practically raising himself he has no excuse to be lazy in his training, Twigs turned to swords and hands turned to fists over the years, he couldn’t complain too much about having his childhood ripped away from him. It only meant that he was so much more prepared for life as it really was. This was no child’s game.

A disruption in the grass pattern told him he was home. He kicked away clumps of grass and hay to reveal a small, cracked, makeshift door in the side of the hill. The door, more there to keep the wind out than anything else opened at the slightest push and Alex slipped into his rocky, cave like ‘home.’ A small bundle of frayed and worn blankets took up the far corner where he slept and a rickety table and set of two chairs he had managed to salvage resided in the other corner. It wasn’t lavish, it wasn’t grand, but it was home. No matter how empty it was.

A rusted iron knife was embedded into the table, its handle worn from overuse and time. The only other possession of note was a letter that lay unread on the table. His gaze rested on it from across the cave and he had to fight the urge to go to it, to open it. It wouldn’t do him much good, he knew that. Too many lonely nights he had spent staring at the words that didn’t make sense to him, wishing above all else that he knew what they said. He was never taught to read.

He supposes he wouldn’t mind to much be that letter not from his mother. Written the day she left. Alex was still young then, only eight years old. His father hung for the same crimes Alex himself is repeating when he was but four years old, he barely even remembered his face. He sighed softly, crossing the cave to grab his knife and pausing by the table, his hand hovering over the curled edges of the paper for a brief moment before he turned away. His mother had told him she had finally found a job. She was working in the stables from the next village over. She never told him what the job exactly was, Alex never asked. All he knew was that she never returned.

 

He shook his head and adjusted his grip on the knife before sheathing it in his belt and leaving the cave to emerge back out into the forest. He walked for a few minutes until the canopy lessened and sunlight broke through like a thousand revelations and he smiled, eyes trained on the road that led into the village as he sat down on the grass. He took a hearty bite from his apple and grinned widely, a small noise of satisfaction rumbling from the back of his throat as he licked his lips to catch the stray juices that dripped from his mouth.

He allowed himself to lie back on the grass and look up at the clouds that lazily drifted by like smoke combed with a golden brush. He rested his hands on the back of his head as he stared up into the blue sky, an unsung tune on his lips and he let out a deep breath. His position in life was not enviable, he didn’t have it easy. Days could pass before he could get his hands on food or water, months could pass before somebody would say a kind word to him. But in moments like these where the skies are calling him and the birds are fluttering nearby he feels almost as if he could chase the wind and touch the sky. All of his problems seemed small, insignificant when he revels in the canvas of sky that wraps around them like a blanket of blues, pinks and reds.

There are many like him, who live on the outskirts, feeding off stolen time. He isn’t the first, he won’t be the last. He wonders if that’s supposed to be a comforting thought. Perhaps it’s more of a reflection of the society they lived in. He’s tried to cover it up with thick skin but it never truly lasts. He knows what he is. He knows he cannot rise above it. Once a lout, always a lout. Once a sinner, always a sinner. They disapproved of him, he knew that. They turned their noses up at him and he stuck up his middle finger right back. He was made of thicker stuff. He was born of starlight and raised in mud. His wings had been clipped since birth, never given the opportunity to fly. He had the King to thank for that.

The king, whom people spoke of like a god. The king, whose laws had his father hung before his sons young eyes. The man who sat in his castle, comfy and warm whilst he shivered on a pile of rotten blankets. He hears things in his line of work, things that no one is supposed to hear. He knows the King is ill, bewitched by some strange magic unknown. He didn’t even bother pretending to mourn, good riddance! He found himself smiling then, as sadistic as it sounded he couldn’t wait. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that things would magically get better, but it offered some form of closing comfort that the pig would finally squeal. He cast his memories back to try and remember if there was an heir. The mother died, he remembered that. There was silence in the town for a week, flowers littered the square and even Alex felt a pang of sympathy.

The queen was kind, loving. She reached out to the families of those wronged by the system. He could still remember her from that day, when he was young with grubby hands and her dress was as pure and white as snow. She spoke to his mother in words like silk and Alex felt like he could touch the words in the air. He thinks maybe he can remember a dark haired boy of about his age by her side, maybe another kid from the town? There was more than one hanging that day. Perhaps he was in the same position. There was no heir, he was sure of it. It’s a good thing that cursed family would soon die out. Less taint to plague the lands.

He twisted the apple in his hand, enjoying the way the sunlight gleamed off its skin and he took another bite, closing his eyes to the world around him. The acidy, sweet juice from the apple watered his taste buds and he smiled softly, tilting back his head as he swallowed and allowing a small sigh to escape his lips. A softly murmured song drifted from his parted lips as he let the steady beat of the music in his head seep into the air around him.

_“A gypsy rover came over the hill._

_Down through the valley so shady._

_He whistled and he sang ‘til the green woods rang._

_And he won the heart of a lady.”_

_Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-doo-dah-day._  
 _Ah-dee-doo-ah-dee-day-dee._  
 _He whistled and he sang 'til the green woods rang._  
 _And he won the heart of a lady.”_

Distantly he could hear the rattle of carriage wheels on the path that led into the town but he didn’t bother lifting his head. By the soft thump of hooves against the dirt path and the sounds the wheels made when going over small bumps Smith could tell that it was a simple trade carriage, hardly worth his attention. He knew all too well when to be worried about an approaching carriage, mostly when the horses are cantering towards him and there’s lots of yelling. As it was the day remained blissfully silent and Smith allowed his focus to wonder back to the song.

_“She left her father's castle gate._  
 _She left her own fine lover._  
 _She left her servants and her state_  
 _To follow her gypsy rover._

_She left behind her velvet gown,_  
 _And shoes of Spanish leather._  
 _They whistled and they sang 'till the green woods rang._  
 _As they rode off together.”_

It was some kind of peace, lying here in the still springy grass from last night’s rain and allowing himself to breathe. He was a bitter person true, no denying that. He harboured a deep hatred for the monarchy like a filthy secret that no one but his own reflection in the water could know about. Yet if he had to say one thing about those wretched animals…they sure knew how to keep the land in shape, the very moss green grass he lay on was evidence of that.

He didn’t remember the other verse to the song, his mother was always so much better at it than he.  It probably wasn’t all that important anyway. The two lovers were probably caught, people probably died. That’s how most things seem to go.

 

“Excuse me?” A small voice called out from above him and Smith blinked his eyes open to see the slight figure of a man about his age blocking the sunlight. He frowned up at him, moving one hand down to rest on the hilt of his knife. The man looked harmless, but you could never be too sure.

“Is this the town of Cidade?” the young man asked, he looked tired and worn down, heavy bags rested under his eyes as if they belonged there, weighing him down like boulders and Smith took his hand away from the hilt of his knife, this man posed no threat to him, he looked as if a small gust of wind would blow him over.

 

Smith was silent for a moment, taking in the appearance of the stranger before clearing his throat. “Yeah… the towns just down that road, Y’can’t miss it.” He pointed vaguely down the road, never once taking his eyes off the newcomer.

He wouldn’t call himself dishonest, well actually he probably would. I mean, thieves are typically dishonest. Have you ever heard of an honest thief? No. Because they would have all been caught by now. Smith found himself snickering imagining it. The sound caught the young man that stood before him off guard and that’s when Smith realized that breaking into laughter around new people in air that was otherwise silent was a bad idea. All the same. He _could_ have misled this man, could have sent him down some un named path and stolen all his goods but he was feeling generous today, he would only steal maybe a few things.

“I can help you get down there if you like?” He said with as friendly a grin as he could muster. “The path is rocky, it’s easy to get lost.”

The stranger observed his with some suspicion for a moment, but he seemed too tired to argue. Smith almost felt bad for intending to steal from him. Almost. He stood up and dusted the dirt from his clothes, rubbing at a grass stain on his tunic as he followed the man back down to his cart. Even the horse looked at him suspiciously. Then again horses are supposed to be extraordinarily clever, maybe it had sussed him out…Smith was suddenly very glad that horses, and all animals for that matter lacked the ability to talk.

 

They rode in near silence for a few minutes, the carriage rocking and swaying gently beneath them and Smith had to breathe in to avoid accidentally leaning on the un named traveller. He took this moment to steal sly glances at the man next to him and attempt to figure him out. He was short, perhaps several inches shorter than he was, though he looked roughly the same age. Unkempt brown hair stuck up in funny places as if he had been tearing at it and Smith suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

“I can’t actually go into the town with you.” He said, looking away at the path ahead of them. The stranger raised his eyebrow but said nothing. “I can only take you so far.”

Silence again, if the stranger hadn’t already said a total of eight words to him Smith would have suspected he didn’t know how to talk, but then again maybe they were the only words he knew.”

 

“This road is not rocky.” The stranger said, catching Smith by surprise. 

“What?” he asked, shuffling in his seat.

“You said this road was going to be rocky. It isn’t.”

“Oh uh…” Smith began, panicking. “They must have levelled it out.”

 

The stranger just nodded and Smith wanted nothing more than to jump out of the carriage and run back down the road, as far away from here as possible. But at the same time something told him not to leave. There was something different about this man, something that didn’t quite fit, he shook with exhaustion he spoke like steel. He was adorned in merchant’s clothes that didn’t quite fit, hanging off his loose frame like sails. Small sails, but sails nonetheless. There was an aura of mystery around this man, the trace of a story yet to be told. This man was a book that Smith was willing to learn to read for, and he didn’t even know his name.

 

“Christopher Trottimus.” The stranger said, adjusting the reins in his hands. “At your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Smith sings is a Celtic song called The Gypsy Rover, you can listen to it here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XzlM4t0WOxw  
> Trott's intro will be the next chapter and then the real story will begin!!  
> Thank you all so much for that massive amount of support I've already had for this AU!


End file.
